


in loco fratris

by meretricula



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne's C+ Parenting, Dick Grayson's A+ Big Brothering, Gen, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 16:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16495979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meretricula/pseuds/meretricula
Summary: Dick may be legally dead, but he's not going to let that stop him from making sure his little brothers are looking after each other while he's gone.





	in loco fratris

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mlraven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mlraven/gifts).



> This is mostly based on the premise of Grayson (Dick's secret identity is exposed so he fakes his own death and goes undercover at Spyral) but takes place in a vaguely amorphous universe where everyone is in Gotham when I want them to be and nobody dies at a time that is inconvenient to the plot. Comics! Canon is what you want it to be.

Dick was so caught up in everything that had happened and was about to happen — almost dying, faking his death, and oh, by the way, going undercover with some super-secret and super-evil spy organization — that it took him a moment to process what Bruce was saying to him. Then he replayed it in his head, and realized he should have seen this coming. Batman was never more, well, _Batman_ than when something threatened his kids. "Absolutely not," he said. 

"It's an unacceptable and unnecessary risk," Bruce said. "Their knowing would only put them and you in greater danger." 

"You think that my brothers don't understand about keeping deep cover?" Dick demanded. "You think that _Tim Drake_ can't keep a secret? Bruce, come on. He's been keeping our secrets since he was nine years old. Dami was raised by the League of Assassins! Jason was _dead_. You think lying to them is going to keep them safe?" 

Bruce didn't try to argue the point about Tim, which Dick knew damn well was the closest he was going to get to an acknowledgement that Bruce was being paranoid and ridiculous. "The fewer people are aware of your situation — "

"No," Dick repeated. "I'm not going to debate this with you. I agree that it should be need-to-know, but they need to know. I know what it feels like to lose a brother. I'm not doing that to them." 

"You may not have a choice," Bruce said. Dick was watching, so he caught the tiny flinch of Bruce's mouth as what he'd said caught up with him. He'd been raised by the world's greatest detective: he knew when to press his advantage. 

"Someday I might not have a choice, but I do now. Bruce, please. Don't put them through that for nothing." 

Bruce sighed. "All right, Tim can — "

"This isn't a negotiation. Either you can help me figure out how to see my brothers before I leave — _all of them_ — or you can let Alfred know what you're planning and see what he thinks about it." Dick raised a single eyebrow with withering scorn. "Want to bet whose side he'll be on?" 

"I don't know how it's possible for you to be even more stubborn now than you were as a child," Bruce said at last. 

"Only when it really matters," Dick said, magnanimous in victory, and let Bruce go back to planning the mission. 

*

Jason wasn't sure what Bruce had said to get the Replacement and Demon Brat in the same room without bloodshed, but he wouldn't have put money on it doing anything to promote family unity in the long run. Even on opposite sides of the study and ignoring each other, it didn't take a trained vigilante to feel the incipient violence radiating off them both in waves. "What are _you_ doing here, Todd?" the brat demanded. 

"Ask Alfred," Jason said. "Not like it was my idea." He figured if there was any day he could afford to cut the kid a break, it was probably his brother's funeral -- so far as he could tell, Dick had been the only person in Gotham Damian actually _liked_ aside from Bruce and all the attendant daddy issues, and anyway he wasn't going to get into a fight in the manor on the day Alfred had had to bury one of his children -- but he wasn't interested in being the brat's emotional punching bag, either. He could go cry into a pillow for four straight hours and then repress his trauma for his remaining natural life like the rest of them. "I don't want to see you any more than you want to see me, trust me." 

"For once in your lives could you two just -- not," the Replacement said. Jason and the brat both pivoted to glare at him, but Jason almost felt bad about it when he got a good look at Tim. Damian at least was trying to pretend he wasn't a complete wreck about what had happened to Dick, even if he was doing a bad job of it; the Replacement looked like a malnourished, puffy-eyed raccoon in a designer suit. 

"Feel free to leave if the company is not to your liking, _Drake_ ," Demon Brat snapped. "In fact, you should both go. This is a time for _family_." 

"Fuck the fuck off, like I'm interested in being family with any of you fucking sanctimonious hypocritical pricks," Jason snarled, good intentions about not making Alfred's day harder flying out the window, before the door to Bruce's study opened to reveal a total stranger on the other side. 

"I'm so sorry, this part of the manor is off-limits except for family," the Replacement said smoothly. "I'm sure you understand, under the very difficult circumstances, we would appreciate being allowed some privacy..." 

It was freaky to watch Timothy Drake-Wayne of Wayne Enterprises slam down like a mask over the Replacement's face, which was why Jason was looking at the brat instead when the stranger smiled at them and said, "Hey, Tim, hey, Dami, hey, Jason," and got to see hope and betrayal simultaneously break the through the sneer Talia had spent years training into him. Even on the Demon Brat, it wasn't a fun sight. "I'm going to kick your fucking ass," Jason said, very calmly, and launched himself across the room. 

Dick managed to get the door shut and his fists up before Jason could land a gut-punch, unfortunately. "Jay! Jay, stop, it's me, Dick!" 

"I know it's you, you fucking asshole!" Jason shouted. "I went to your funeral! Your god damned fucking _funeral_ , you piece of shit! I'm going to fucking _kill you!_ " 

"I understand that you're upset," Dick said. "If you could just calm down -- "

" _Upset?_ I'll show you fucking _upset_ \-- "

Damian made the obnoxious clicking noise that inevitably presaged one of his mannerless outbursts, which under the circumstances Jason felt was more than justified. "I would also appreciate an explanation of your deception, Grayson." 

"And that is completely reasonable," Dick said soothingly. "Let's all just sit down and talk about this." 

"I can listen from a standing position," Damian said. 

"I'm waiting for you to drop your guard so I can punch you in the face." Jason crossed his arms over his chest, glaring. "Replacement? You have anything you want to contribute to the discussion?" 

The wet choked sound that the Replacement made in response reminded Jason of stab victims. He glanced back over his shoulder: Tim was backed up against the wall with one hand clamped over his own mouth and the other in the air, trying to wave off Dick's sudden concern. "'M fine!" he managed after a moment. "Don't -- "

"Great job, Dick, you broke the Replacement," Jason snapped. 

"Tim, when did you sleep last?" Dick asked gently. 

"I'm _fine_ ," Tim repeated, which would have been more convincing if he'd been able to control either his breathing or the tears pouring down his face. "It's been a... bad week. I'm glad you're alive." 

Damian's clicking noise made a reappearance. "I am also pleased by your survival, Grayson," he said. "But you should not consider yourself forgiven for your concealment of the fact!" 

"I know, Dami. I'm really sorry," Dick said. "I wanted to tell you right away, and B didn't want to tell you at all, and then if we told you before the funeral he thought you might act differently and people would guess, and -- " 

"Typical," Jason interrupted. "I guess we're supposed to be grateful you dug up enough spine to argue with him at all. Well, congratulations, you got your emotional comeback scene, I hope your fucking pathetic need for validation was satisfied by seeing how sad it made everyone who's ever cared about you to have to put you in the fucking ground. You _asshole_."

"Little Wing — "

"Cut it out, Jason, this isn't helping." Tim stepped up to his shoulder, a surprisingly solid and reassuring presence for someone almost a full head shorter. He'd scrubbed his face dry while the rest of them were talking, at the cost of getting snot all over the sleeves of a probably thousand-dollar suit. "Where is Bruce sending you?" 

"I can't tell you," Dick said. "And you can't tell anyone I'm still alive — not even Steph, all right, Tim? Not even Babs. But I'm going to be gone a while. I just came to say goodbye." 

"You're nuts if you think Barbara and Cass aren't going to figure it out," Tim said. 

"Tell it to B," Dick sighed. "You know what he's like. I had to pick my battles." 

"How will we be able to contact you?" Damian asked abruptly. 

Dick's alien face spasmed into a familiar expression of regret as he wrapped an arm around the Demon Brat. "It's going to be deep cover, Dami. Total radio silence. B is the only who'll be able to reach me. You guys are going to have to look after each other for me while I'm gone, okay?" 

"I don't need anyone to 'look after' me," Damian sneered, but he let Dick hug him for an uncomfortably long time without even a token attempt to escape. Jason spent the long awkward silence watching the Replacement out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't crying anymore, but he looked _bad_ , cracked open and vulnerable in a way that prodded at the part of Jason that went after dealers who sold to kids with extra vigor. He was such a mini-Bruce most of the time -- 

Except when Bruce had been dead. So this was probably pretty par for the course, if there was a course where all your parental figures kept dying on you or maybe not dying and you didn't know which but you had to keep holding it together anyway because it wasn't your turn to be the family fuck-up. Vigilante side-kick combined mini-golf and obstacle course, maybe. Either way, Jason was starting to feel some unwilling sympathy for his replacement, even aside from the part where they were both stuck watching Dick give one last-ditch try at turning the Demon Brat into a real boy by force of dubiously consensual cuddling. 

"All right, go on and help your dad with the guests, people will be looking for you," Dick said at last. "I love you, Dami. Be good for me and don't let your brothers get killed, okay?" 

Damian's shoulders went back and his chin went up as soon as Dick let him go, and the scoffing noise he made as headed toward the door made him sound more like an offended cat than the terror-inspiring baby assassin he so clearly thought he was. Just as he reached for the door, though, he stopped short and spun around. "You had better be careful when I'm not there to watch your back, Grayson," he said. "Because if you really die, I will never, _ever_ forgive you!" 

Jason wasn't feeling particularly generous toward Dick, but he was willing to give him credit for one thing at least: he looked genuinely agonized as Damian ran out of the room. "Is that 'I love you' in demon-speak?" he mused aloud. 

"Jason," Tim and Dick said in irritated unison. 

"Sorry if I'm not in the mood to appreciate your beautiful family bonding moment," he said, eyes rolling. "Have your little heart-to-heart, I'm going to go see if Alfie needs anything before I take off." 

"Jason, please, just -- wait a minute, all right?" Dick asked. 

Tim glanced between them, wary enough that Jason wanted to snap at him: Dick was by all objective standards the one being an asshole right now, so what was he acting scared of _Jason_ for? Aside from the thing where he'd almost killed him once, which was barely worth getting worked up over in their family. He was pretty sure Damian still tried to assassinate Tim every once in a while out of sheer force of habit. "I can go check on Alfred instead," the Replacement offered. "If you two need to talk." 

"No, Tim, that's not what I -- just come here, all right? Please, baby bird." 

Jason averted his eyes and did his best not to listen to whatever Dick was whispering into Tim's hair. He couldn't give the Replacement the dignity of a private nervous breakdown, but at least he could avoid spying on his gross mushy farewell scene. Or that was the intention, anyway, but there was only so much he could take before he threw up all over Bruce's extremely expensive carpet. "Oh my god, are you two _done_ yet? Some of us have lives to be getting back to." 

"Promise me?" Dick asked, completely ignoring him. 

The Replacement made a noise halfway between a sigh and a sniffle — was he crying _again_? Why the fuck did anyone think Dick was the emotionally intelligent member of the family if he couldn't even comfort one traumatized sleep-deprived teenage vigilante, seriously — and mumbled, "Fine, I promise." 

"I'm proud of you, baby bird," Dick said, so fondly that it made bile crawl up Jason's throat. 

"Um, all right," the Replacement said awkwardly. "I'm going to... go change my jacket. And help Alfred. Please take care of yourself and try not to get killed for real. See you tonight, Jason," he added, _waving_ , like running into each other on patrol was some kind of social engagement. For all Jason knew, he actually thought it was. If any of Bruce's kids made it to adulthood with a single non-caped friend it would be a minor miracle, Jason thought, and pointedly did not wave back. 

"All right, what's so important you had to smuggle me into Daddy Dearest's study under the cover of your fake funeral to discuss it with me?" he demanded. 

Dick sighed and ran his hands through his hair. "Can I start by saying thank you? I appreciate you waiting for me to finish saying goodbye to Damian and Tim." 

"You're blocking the exit." 

"You're perfectly capable of going out the window and we both know it," Dick said mildly. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Jason, I'm sorry, all right? I know it was shitty of me to let B put everyone through a funeral to keep my cover and whether you believe me or not, I do remember how awful it feels to lose a brother. I didn't want to make you feel like that, even temporarily. And I know it's shitty of me to be relieved that if something permanent _did_ happen to me, you'd come to check on Alfred." 

"It's not Alfie's fault that the rest of you are useless fucking shitheads," Jason muttered, looking anywhere that wasn't Dick's freaky unrecognizable face. Whatever technology Bruce had dug up to pull that effect off, he should have left it buried. 

"I'm not arguing," Dick said. "And I'm sorry that the last thing I do before I go has to be asking you a favor, but you have to look out for Tim and Damian while I'm away. You're the oldest," he went on, on top of Jason's immediate objection, "and Alfred can't be everywhere, and B is really fucking bad at it. Please, Little Wing. Damian's just a kid, and Tim -- Tim needs somebody in his corner." 

"And you think that should be the person who tried to kill him," Jason said skeptically, and then immediately wished he could go back in time and shove a gag into his own mouth. Now that he'd shown the slightest hint of interest, Dick would never let it go. 

"Tim didn't seem upset about it just now. Or any of the times we've worked together recently. Look, Jason, just promise me that if Tim or Damian calls you for help, you'll pick up." 

"They're not going to call _me_ for help." If there was nothing else Jason could be confident of, he could still be sure that Bruce would be rotting in the ground and all of Satan's little helpers would be doing competitive ice dance routines in Hell before any of his precious golden children went asking for help from the big bad Red Hood. 

"Okay, but _if they do_ , will you promise to help them? I'm not going to leave you alone until you do, and I can be extremely annoying if I put my mind to it." 

Jason rolled his eyes. "You're extremely annoying at all times, Dickiebird, you're not making me feel special. Yes, fine, in the unlikely event that the Replacement or _his_ replacement calls me for backup, I will go rushing to their aid, guns blazing. Happy now?" 

Dick just smiled, which was unnerving -- it made Jason suspect he knew something Jason didn't, which should never happen, because Dick was an idiot -- and spread his arms open wide. "The only thing that would make me happier would be a hug good-bye from my Little Wing." 

"You're not getting one." 

"Then I guess I'm as happy as can be." Dick dropped both his arms and the smile and added seriously, "Thank you, Jason. I'm not -- I'm not happy that B's asking me to do this, but I feel better knowing you'll keep an eye on them." 

"Whatever," Jason said. He eyed Dick, evaluated his chances of getting past him unhugged in light of the width of the doorframe, Dick's agility, and the likelihood that Dick's even bringing the subject up had been a feint, and headed for the window instead. "Try not to die out there, Big Bird. You've already maxed out your funeral allotment." 

Dick's laughter followed him down as he jumped. "I'll do my best, Little Wing." 

*

Damian was not in the habit of consorting with his inferiors, and thus had never before had a reason to visit his father's adopted son's apartment in the city -- when he had been making regular attempts on Drake's life, Drake had still been living at Wayne Manor. He had made a promise to Grayson, however, and Damian Wayne al Ghul kept his word. 

Unfortunately, that was what had gotten him into his current predicament. 

"Damian?" Drake emerged from a different room in the apartment -- presumably the bedroom, since he was wearing pajamas and his hair was in a state of disarray that Damian had heard Grayson refer to as "bedhead", but given the energy drink can clutched in one of his hands and the fact that it was three o'clock in the afternoon, it might also have been his home office -- and stared with his mouth hanging open, like the slack-jawed yokel he was. "What are you doing here?" 

"Obviously I have come to ascertain that you are in a reasonable state of health," Damian gritted out. "Why is your window booby-trapped?" 

Drake shook his head vigorously, then set his vile sugar-laden beverage down on a precarious pile of books atop the nearest table and rubbed at his eyes. "Your grandfather sends assassins to try and kidnap me at least once a month, and also until fairly recently you were trying to murder me every chance you got," he said. "It seemed like a reasonable precaution. Why didn't you just ring the doorbell?" 

"It did not occur to me to do so," Damian said stiffly. "I will rectify my oversight in the future." 

"Oh... kay," Drake said. "Um, hang on a minute, I'll get you out of the cage." 

Given his lack of faith in Drake's attention span and multitasking abilities, Damian judged it best to wait until he had completely finished disarming the window trap before resuming his mission. "Where is your kitchen?" 

"My kitchen," Drake repeated. 

"Yes, your space for the preparation and consumption of food," Damian said, frowning. Was Drake's hearing deteriorating due to a lack of sleep or nutrients? Clearly the situation was worse than he had anticipated. 

Drake pointed to a hallway leading out of the living room in the opposite direction from which he had come. "It's through there. I wouldn't say much food preparation takes place in this apartment, though. Are you hungry? I can call for takeout." 

"School provides adequately for my mid-day nutritional needs. I wish to examine the contents of your refrigerator." 

"Feel free," Drake said. "Do you need, uh, supervision? It's just that I'm in the middle of the stockholders reports right now." 

"Your activities are irrelevant to my mission," Damian declared. "Do as you like." 

"Right," Drake said. "Okay. I'll just be... on the sofa, with my laptop. If you need me for anything involving your mission to go through my fridge." As Damian watched, he retrieved three separate cans of energy drinks, all at least partially full from the sound they made upon being shaken, and settled in lotus position on his couch with a computer that he unearthed from beneath a pile of throw blankets. Within moments, he seemed to have completely forgotten Damian's existence. 

The kitchen, when Damian found it at the end of the hall Drake had pointed out, contained an alarming combination of clutter and the complete absence of food. There was a tangled nest of charging cables emerging from every visible power outlet but the only piece of food preparation equipment that seemed to have been put to use recently was a coffee grinder, which sat out on the counter beside a row of seven unwashed French presses. The dishwasher held nothing but spoons and coffee mugs. When Damian opened a cupboard, the only thing inside it was box upon box upon box of strawberry-flavored Poptarts. It was simply not possible that a human being lived in such conditions. Surely this was a joke Drake and Grayson had put together at his expense. 

"Oh, don't turn on the stove," Drake yelled from the living room. "I rigged it to blow up if anyone switched on the burners." 

Damian stormed back down the hall. "Why," he demanded, "would you turn your stove into an explosive?" 

"If someone's using my stove, they obviously evaded my security system and broke into my apartment," Drake said, with an air of rationality at complete odds with both the words coming out of his mouth and the manic look in his bloodshot eyes. "It's one of my fall-back defense mechanisms." 

"And what if _you_ wanted to use your stove?" 

Drake stared at him. "Why would I do that?" 

Damian threw his hands into the air and returned to the kitchen to complete his inspection, already dreading what he might find when he opened the refrigerator. 

The first thing he noticed was the peculiar smell. It was presumably emanating from one of the many cartons of leftover takeout food, but he was unable to determine the precise culprit without sniffing them individually, which he had no desire to do. The top shelf was dominated by a half-gallon of milk long past its expiration date and a brown paper bag that did not appear ever to have been opened: it was still stapled shut by the delivery receipt. "Drake!" Damian shouted, horrified. "According to the receipt on this package it has been sitting in your refrigerator for over a month! Why have you not disposed of it?" 

"Hmm?" Drake wandered into the kitchen at an aimless pace, clearly disregarding the urgency of the situation, and peered over Damian's shoulder. "Oh, my lo mein. It's fine, MSG's a preservative," he said, retrieved yet another sickly green can of caffeinated sugar water from the refrigerator door, and retreated back the way he had come before any of the five extremely cutting remarks competing to emerge from Damian's mouth could win out. Damian muffled a scream and pulled out his phone. An al Ghul did not admit defeat, but a Wayne could, under certain circumstances, call for reinforcements. 

"Todd!" he barked, eight rings and a mumbled "H'lo?" later. "I require your assistance. I will transmit the coordinates to you momentarily." 

"Wha -- Demon Brat? The sun isn't even down yet, what could you possibly -- this is the Replacement's apartment building," Todd said, all traces of disorientation vanishing from his voice. "Who are you dealing with -- Penguin? Killer Croc? Ra's?" 

"Drake's _refrigerator_!" Damian howled, albeit at a volume more suited to a whisper to avoid attracting Drake's notice. "There is no food in this kitchen. The only item which is not expired in his entire refrigerator is _mayonnaise_. I cannot believe I ever wasted time and energy on attempting to murder him when he is clearly doomed to die of food poisoning or malnutrition!" 

Todd did not appear to comprehend the need for immediate action. "This is really happening," he mused aloud. "Amazing. Fuck Dick, anyway. Brat, did you seriously call me to ask me to bring you groceries?" 

"To bring _Drake_ groceries," Damian corrected. "I am provided with an nutritionally optimal combination of vegetables and carbohydrates by Pennyworth, and have no need of further sustenance." 

"Still doing the vegetarian thing, huh? I guess I can respect your commitment, at least. All right, let me get up." 

"It is not quite four in the afternoon," Damian said disapprovingly. 

"Yeah, which is time for good little crime lords to be tucked up in their beds. I wouldn't click my tongue about someone trying to get enough sleep if I were you, kid. If you're not careful you'll stunt your growth and end up even shorter than the Replacement." 

"That is not how human biology works," Damian said. He was almost certain. He looked at the rows of energy drinks in Drake's refrigerator and resolved to make sure to get more sleep anyway. 

"Well, what would I know, I died before I even finished high school," Todd said. "Ironically, it turns out that being dead is the one thing that's bad for you that _doesn't_ stunt your growth. All right, I'm up, I'm dressed, what am I getting you from the store? I hope you realize I'm paying for this with drug lord money, some of us don't have trust funds." 

"You do have a trust fund; I overheard Drake complaining to Father about his difficulties in reinstating it once you returned from the dead. However, the source of your money is of no interest to me. Please acquire whatever you believe is necessary to stock a kitchen. Obviously I have never been responsible for so menial a task and thus have no further guidance to provide." 

Todd heaved an overly dramatic sigh, providing Damian with no difficulty in visualizing the eyeroll that no doubt accompanied it. "Your wish is my command, Lord High Demon Brat. Any last-minute instructions before I head out?" 

Damian let the refrigerator door swing shut and walked silently back to the living room, where Drake had fallen suspiciously quiet over the course of his conversation with Todd. "No. Or — wait." Drake was asleep on the couch, the laptop sliding slowly but inexorably toward the floor and the can in his hand threatening to tip over at any moment. Without pausing to think, Damian rescued the laptop, moved the half-empty can to the table, and draped one of the throw blankets over Drake's unconscious form. "Make sure you come in through the front door. The window is alarmed." 

Hopefully Todd would know how to disarm the bomb in the stove. 

*

The thing was, Tim wasn't even sure how he'd ended up in this situation. 

No, that wasn't true. Tim had learned detective work from Batman himself, and this case wasn't that hard to crack. Obviously everything had started when Damian enlisted Jason in his inexplicable crusade to ban energy drinks from Tim's apartment and force him to eat vegetables. Then Steph had come over to hang out before patrol and run into Jason in the kitchen, where they had bonded over their mutual interest in oven-baked mac and cheese with bacon bits on top. And then Steph had found out Tim owned an underutilized HBO Go account and that Jason had opinions about the Song of Ice and Fire books and now somehow Tim had to leave work early every Friday so he could pick Damian up from school and bring him back to the apartment for a pre-patrol Game of Thrones viewing party. Steph and Jason hadn't turned it into a drinking game yet, but Tim knew it was only a matter of time. 

"This is not appropriate for Damian to be watching," he said for the fourth time that afternoon. 

"While I appreciate that your concerns are well-meant, they are misplaced," Damian said. "I assure you that I have seen far worse at a younger age than I am now." 

"If you've seen worse things than the rape scenes in HBO shows, whoever showed them to you should be in jail or six feet under," Tim snapped. "Cass, I'll let you know when it's safe for him to look again." 

"Okay," Cassandra said cheerfully. Damian squirmed in her lap but didn't make any real effort to get away, probably because he knew it was pointless. Screening Game of Thrones for age-appropriateness had gotten a lot easier once Cass had taken over the job of covering Damian's eyes. 

"An-y-way," Steph said, "can we get back to the really important discussion now?" 

"Halloween costumes are not a really important discussion," Tim sighed. "We're all too old for Halloween. Except Damian, and he doesn't want to go trick or treating anyway. Cass, you can let him look now." 

"Says _you_ , rich boy. Jason, back me up here." 

"Halloween candy is serious business," Jason agreed. 

"We need a strategy. Optimized tactics. A group costume." 

"I can buy whatever candy you want and we go out in costume _literally every night_ — "

"Shut up, Replacement, let the woman speak. Group costume?" 

"Game of Thrones theme group costume," Steph said with the intensity of a cultist imparting religious secrets. "We dress Damian up and parade him up and down Tim's disgustingly rich condo building and reap the rewards of being such wonderful older siblings taking our baby brother trick or treating. We split the candy. We crash a party at Gotham U and drink free alcohol and give confused frat boys terror boners. Win/win/win." 

Tim, about to tell Steph off for talking about erections in front of Damian, noticed that Cass had clapped her hands over his ears just in time and relaxed back into the couch. Cassandra glanced at him sidelong to make sure he was looking and then winked. "You want to go trick or treating?" he whispered to her. 

"Will be... fun," she whispered back. 

If Cassandra wanted to experience the gross commercialism of American Halloween traditions firsthand, Tim figured the least he could do was slap down a credit card and make it happen. "All right," he interrupted Steph and Jason's planning session, reaching for the laptop on the coffee table, "which costumes am I buying?" 

"Obviously Cass is going to be Arya," Steph said immediately. 

"Dibs on Jon Snow," said Jason, almost as quickly. 

Stephanie sneered. "Ugh, you would." 

"What?" Jason demanded. 

"I'm just _saying_ , you _would_ one of those guys who thinks he's totally Jon Snow. Which you're not. Tim's Jon Snow." 

" _Tim_ is not Jon Snow," Jason sputtered. "Take that back! Take it back right now!" 

"I don't even want to be Jon Snow," Tim intervened. The Pit rage was long gone, but Jason had more effective threats than grievous bodily harm now. Tim didn't want to be stuck eating steamed Brussels sprouts for a whole week again. "I want to be Tyrion." 

"You not wanting to be Jon Snow is just further evidence that you _are_ Jon Snow," Steph said smugly. 

"Or wait, is it offensive if I go as Tyrion? Is that appropriation?" Tim looked over at Steph and Jason, then sighed. "Wait, who am I asking." 

"How would it be appropriation, you _are_ short," Jason said. "Shut up, you harpy. Who are you going to be, _Danaerys_?" 

"Fuck you! I'm going as Brienne! And _you_ are so obviously Jaime with your whole redeemed evil groove, so why do you even care who goes as Jon?" 

"Maybe I don't want to go as a one-handed sister-fucker, and also that's _gross_ , that's a couples costume! You know Jaime's going to end up with Brienne!" 

Tim took his life in his own hands and yanked Steph away from Jason before bloodshed could ensue. The last time Jason and Steph had had a disagreement about romantic endgames in popular media had gotten ugly enough to result in a lifetime ban on Avatar: The Last Airbender in the apartment, and he didn't want to have to replace his couch. "GUYS! Cass wants to say something." 

Everyone immediately fell silent and turned to look at her. Even Damian twisted around so he could see her face. "Should be... Starks. All together. More... cute." 

Stephanie drew in a deep breath, clearly prepared to start listing all the ways Cassandra was wrong, and then suddenly deflated. "Shit. She's right, it would be way cuter." 

"Robb, Sansa, Jon," Cass said, pointing to Jason, Steph and Tim in turn. "Damian... Bran?" 

"I don't want to be Bran," Damian objected. "I want to be Arya." 

"Cass is already Arya, you have to be Bran," Steph argued. "Or Rickon." 

"No," Cass said, smiling. "We... share." 

Tim contemplated the idea of Cass and Damian dressed up as identical fictional child assassins and mentally upgraded the group costume from "cute" to "unspeakably adorable." He was going to take so many pictures. He was going to put them in _frames_. "I'll buy two Arya costumes," he assured them. 

The oven timer let out a long beep, audible even from the kitchen, and Jason lunged for the remote. "All right," he said once the show was safely paused. "Steph -- silverware. Cass -- plates. Replacement -- water glasses. Demon Brat — kitchen inspection to make sure the Replacement isn't trying to smuggle Monster in again. Dinner on the table in five, stragglers will be forced to eat an extra helping of salad instead of dessert. Chop chop!" 

Tim hung back to watch as everyone piled into the kitchen, insults and elbows flying. It was a lot louder in his apartment now than when he'd first moved in, that was for sure, but it turned out he didn't mind much. He liked that Jason bullied them all about eating real food, and he liked that Damian felt comfortable whining like a normal kid. He liked that he wasn't alone so much anymore. 

"Drake?" Damian reappeared in the hallway, frowning. "You should hurry before Todd makes good on his threat." 

Tim put the laptop aside and climbed to his feet. "I was just thinking," he said. Damian edged closer, eyebrows knit together, and actually let Tim tuck him under his arm for a momentary hug without squirming free. "I wish Dick could be here too." 

"Grayson will return as soon as he is able," Damian said confidently. "He will no doubt be irritatingly pleased with the current state of events." 

"Almost unbearably so," Tim agreed, and smiled. 

"Replacement! Demon Brat! Get your asses in here, we're not going to wait for you!" 

"Big brother's calling," Tim said. Damian clicked his tongue, then grabbed Tim's wrist and dragged him down the hall to sit down to dinner with his family. 

*

Bruce finished taking notes on Agent 37's latest report and sat back in his chair with a sigh. His joints hurt more with every passing year, and it seemed as though his lower back had decided to join the festivities on his last birthday. Getting old was a privilege for a vigilante, but it was still hell. 

"Do you have any updates for me?" Dick asked. 

"Damian got an A on his English paper. Symbolism in _The Scarlet Letter_. Alfred put it up on the refrigerator and is refusing to let Damian take it down." 

"I'm impressed he wrote anything other than 'this is a bad book' over and over for seven pages." 

Bruce grunted. "He said Tim helped him with the outline. They've been collaborating on a project at work that they're trying to keep secret from me. And I think Damian is trying to wean Tim off coffee; he keeps bringing him tea." He paused, then added, "I saw Jason sitting with Stephanie at Cassandra's ballet recital." 

"Oh, how did she do?" Even through the voice modulator, Bruce could hear the genuine interest in Dick's voice. 

"Beautifully." 

"That's our girl." 

"Agreed." Bruce paused, then gave in to months-old curiosity. "What on earth did you say to them before you left, to make them cooperate with each other?" 

Dick laughed. "They're _your_ kids, B. They all need someone to take care of them, which they'd die by torture before admitting, and they all need someone to take care of, which they're even _less_ happy about. I just made it a mission. Plausible deniability." 

"Hn. It never seems to work out that way for me." 

"Of course it doesn't, you're their father." Bruce could almost hear Dick smiling. "I'm their big brother."

**Author's Note:**

> Dear mlraven: I'm so sorry I didn't finish this in time for Halloween, but better late than never? I had _so much fun_ playing with the Batfam, thank you for giving me an excuse! 
> 
> Eternal gratitude to my dear friend g, who lets me text her things like "Tim Drake would eat six month old lo mein" without context and just GETS IT. 
> 
> The title is a play on "in loco parentis", a Latin term which refers to a person who is legally acting "in the place of a parent" to a child while their actual parent is absent. Latin unfortunately doesn't have a specific word for "older brother" but I'm pretty sure y'all get the idea.


End file.
